Cure for the Itch
by Nicky T
Summary: Rather violent view inside Rufus' head. I love the imagery in this one, but have never been able to take it farther than it is now....
1. Part One

~Cure for the Itch~  
  
  
  
This one is for: Kitty. Because she was the only one around I could glomp when I was feeling really, REALLY depressed. You know the kind of depressed where you -need- to cry, but you can't. *smile* Thanks Kitty. You were there, and that's what counts.  
  
Notes: AU. For my own reasons Rufus is seventeen in this fic. Haven't decided yet if I'm going to continue this one or not, so figured I'll just put it out here for the world to see an criticize. *sigh* It's a familiar theme, but as usual I have my own little twist on things that should shake things up... anyway... Anyone care to see more of this story? *rubs head and goes back to being disappeared*  
  
  
  
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Do I follow my instincts blindly?  
Do I hide my pride from these bad dreams  
and give in to sad thoughts that are maddening?  
  
-Linkin' Park; By Myself  
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My father is dead, and I can't cry. I've tried. I've done everything I know how, to make myself -feel- something besides this cold satisfaction and relief. Nothing works. He's gone. The man who raised me and treated me like shit all my life is gone. He was my father. I should cry.  
  
I stare down at his coffin. It's open and I can see his face. I remember seeing him in his office after Sephiroth killed him. His mouth was open in a expression of shock. Now they've carefully arranged his features so he doesn't look so... surprised. Personally I liked the expression frozen on his face in death. That dumbfounded look I would have liked to put on his face. I liked that look.  
  
You know what... his eyes shouldn't be open. I reach out and roughly pull his eyelids down to cover his eyes. I gaze down at his face. Death has a funny way of making a person strangely ethereal in appearance. That peacefull expression doesn't suit him though. With fingers that aren't as steady as I'd like them to be I reach out and pull his lips up. The smile is grotesque and falls away when my fingers lift from his face.  
  
My father never smiled. Well, he did, but it was never a true smile. He used to grimace though. It was the nearest he could get to a smile. "President Shinra?"  
  
I turn my head slowly and look at the one who spoke; Tseng. He looks cool and in control in his perfect suit. His hair is combed back and it shines in the light. He's a very alluring man. His exotic features make him so mysterius. I wouldn't go so far as to call him handsome, but he is attractive. "Hm?" I pull my hands out of the coffin. Did he see what I did? He must think I'm strange.   
  
I just met him yesterday actually. He and the Turks. Before that I had lived with my mother, out of Midgar. It's funny, when you're the son of someone as powerful as my father was, if you're out of the picture stories fly. But the truth is I've never been involved in my father's life. I saw him on weekends, or whenever he had free time and that was it. He made sure I had the proper training but I never spent any time in Midgar, at all.  
  
Now here I am.  
  
Thrust into his life. I must take on his duties and I'm not sure I know how. But I do know the first step is to gain the respect of these men. The Turks. If they believe that I'm strong, then the rest of the world will. Even if being strong means pretending to be something I'm not, I will do it.  
  
"It's been fifteen minutes. I don't mean to rush you, but you have a meeting in another ten minutes and the ceremony hasn't finished." Tseng says quietly.  
  
"Hm."   
  
I look away, back down to my father's still face. He'll never laugh again. He used to laugh when he'd hit me. I won't miss that laugh, but just once.... just once I wanted ... It's stupid. The man abused me in pretty much every way possible, and all I ever wanted was for him to say he loved me. Just once. It would have been enough. Sick. Just sick. I curl my hands into fists.  
  
"I hate you." I whisper to his dead body. He can't hear me. I don't believe in life after death, so I don't think even his spirit can hear me. But it feels good to say it. "Tseng, hand me your gun." I hold out my hand.  
  
After hesitating just a moment, he reaches under his jacket and pulls out his pistol. He puts it in my hand. It's heavy, but not as heavy as the old models. He probably has mako bullets. They're expensive, but being a Turk I don't imagine he worries about money. I push the chamber out and quickly check it for bullets. Yep. Mako, and it's fully loaded. Seven bullets waiting to be fired. I snap the chamber back in place and raise the gun.  
  
It's silver barrel meshes with the white of his skin. I can feel Tseng move uncomfortably by my side. I think he knows what I'm doing, and it probably bothers him. I don't care though. I deserve this. I've -earned- it.  
  
I pull the trigger.  
  
He's dead, but there's still blood in his system. The red stains his skin and it's almost pretty. I pull the trigger again, and again. Seven times, then I stop. Seven bullets, seven bright new holes in his perfectly arranged body. I feel a little better.  
  
I hand the gun back to Tseng. He doesn't take it and I glance down. It, and my hand, are covered in blood. Bright red in the light, it's mesmerizing. Tseng pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and he wipes my hand, taking the gun out of my hand while he does. Then he drops my hand, wipes the gun clean and places it back under his jacket. He folds the dirty handkerchief and drops it beside the casket. How careless.  
  
My hand tingles. I look up and meet his gaze. It's the first time I've looked him right in the eye. There's a strange sort of... compassion in his eyes. I don't understand it, but I don't hate it either. It's not pity. If he looked at me with pity I would hate him. You can only pity something you think is weak. I wipe my hand on my pant leg. It's clean now but it still feels dirty. The kind of dirt that can't be washed away.  
  
"Let's go." I turn away from the coffin. The ones who have come to watch the ceremony are staring at me with eyes full of horror. Most of them are diplomats and members of Shinra. I'm sure none of them actually liked my father and I'm equally sure that they have never seen anything quite like what they just witnessed.  
  
They fear me now. I didn't do it intending to make them afraid, but that's what I did. Maybe it's best this way though. They think I'm insane. I'm sure they imagine I'm unstable. Maybe I am. It doesn't matter if I am or not. Now they -think- it, and they'll listen to me. I couldn't have ensured my future as President Shinra any better than I just did by shooting my dead father.  
  
"Mourn him if you wish. I'll have no part of it." I say, loudly enough so they'll all hear. I'm surprised at the strength of my voice. So much authority in it. I wouldn't have recognized it as my own.  
  
My mother would be ashamed of me. She always loved me because I wasn't like my father, but right now, when I spoke, I sounded just like him.  
  
I walk down the aisle, never once looking anywhere but at the door at the end. Tseng is right behind me, an ever present, silent shadow. Do I look like him? In control, confident, and uncaring? Are my eyes hard and unfeeling? Does it appear as if I see everything, but take interest in none of it? I hope so. That's how I want to look.  
  
We reach the end of the aisle, in the foyer Reno and Rude are waiting. Their eyes turn to me. Did they see? I glance down. Little drops of red stain the cuff of my right sleeve. I lift my hand and hold it out to Tseng. He looks at me, a tiny crease on his brow. "Roll it up."   
  
His brow arches at the terse command, but he reaches out and rolls up my sleeve nonetheless. I hold out my other arm and he does the same with the other cuff. Now my cuffs are rolled up to an equal length and the blood cannot be seen. Perfect. I shake my hands, nod at Tseng and walk out.  
  
  
  
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	2. Part Two

~Cure for the Itch~  
  
  
  
This one is for: Kitty.  
  
Notes: AU. For my own reasons Rufus is seventeen in this fic. Thank you everyone for your kind comments. And a special thanks to Kitty. Your Reno is my obssession. I apologize if this part is confusing. I wanted to get a look at both sides of Rufus. The side of him that hated his father and wanted him dead, and the part of him that remains an innocent little boy, who despite the cruel way he was treated, loved his parent.  
  
  
  
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Do I trust some and get fooled by phoniness,  
or do I trust nobody and live in loneliness?  
Because I can't hold on, when I'm stretched so thin  
I make the right moves but I'm lost within.  
  
-Linkin' Park; By Myself  
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This office feels cold and unreal. Part of me, the little boy who is sickened by everything he sees in this new world, recoils as I step into the room and look around. He wants to die, the last bit of innocence left in my psyche. He's crying somewhere in the darkness of my brain, begging me to kill him and give him release. But I can't let go of him. That little boy inside me is the only thing keeping me from becoming my father. If I haven't already become him.  
  
I move towards the desk, in my mind's eye I can see my father lying there. His back covered in blood, Sephiroth's sword protruding from him. It gives me a sick sort of satisfaction, and the little boy screams at the horror of it all. What have I become? But I can't dwell on these thoughts. If I do I'll fall apart.  
  
I run my hand over the top of the desk. It must be a new one, there is no way they could have got the blood stains out. The chair is the same though. Father always wore a plastic cover over his precious leather, so they simply removed the cover and the blood with it. But I see they've put a new plastic cover over the chair. Irritated, but not understanding why, I grab the plastic and rip it off. I jerk so hard the chair spins. I watch it with fascination. How does one work in a chair that spins so easily? I'll have to have it replaced with something more stable. But that can wait for later. I toss the plastic to the ground.   
  
"Have them order a new chair." I tell Tseng as I carefully sit down in my father's chair. My skin tingles, I want to vomit. The last place I want to be is here. My head begins to ache as I pull the chair close to the desk and run my hands over the leather, trying to distract my brain from thinking about what I'm doing, and where I'm sitting.  
  
"Yes, sir. How would you like it, sir?" Tseng murmurs from his spot near the door. Such a long distance, and yet his quiet voice travels it with little trouble and I understand him easily, without having to strain to hear.  
  
"Something that doesn't move. I don't want rollers, I don't want leather, and I don't want a chair that spins." I look up at the dark figure by the door. Now that I'm the President he'll be following me everywhere. A constant shadow. As I stare at him I find myself thinking about the way my father was. Did my father beat this man when he was unhappy with his performance? Did he take him as a lover? My father had a nasty habit of screwing anything with legs. Male, female, beast, human, it didn't matter to him. As a Turk, would Tseng had refused if my father had demanded such services?  
  
"Very well, sir. When would you like it?" His black eyes are looking at me, but not meeting my gaze. He's just a bodyguard, and as such has no right to meet my eyes. This man has been well trained.  
  
"How long were you in my father's service?" I find myself asking, the question bothers me. Tseng is well trained, but is it because he was with my father for a long time, or did he have a previous post with some other important figure?  
  
He pauses, eyes moving to the floor. I watch with fascination as his body tenses ever so slightly. "Fifteen years."  
  
"I want it the next time I enter my office." I say in answer to his last question. Then I push back and get off my father's chair. I kick it away. It rolls across the well polished wooden floor, spinning all the way. It doesn't stop until it collides with the wall.   
  
"I want everything removed from this room." I walk into the center of the room, looking around with disgust at the paintings my father had on the walls.   
  
I notice a painting near to where Tseng is standing. I feel my heart lurch with shock. I glance back quickly, seeing that this particular painting was in direct view of the desk. When one sat at it, they would see only that painting. I hurry across the room, aware of Tseng watching me. Nothing matters. Nothing but that painting. I roughly pull Tseng away from the wall and tilt my head back to look up at it.  
  
The little boy inside me is sobbing like the child he is. There is a woman in the painting. A beautiful woman with platinum blond hair and beautiful, kind blue eyes. She is smiling, a smile I know too well. It's a smile I see everytime I look in the mirror. It's my smile. I lift my hand and run my finger delicately over the contours of her mouth. The painting feels rough beneath my fingers. This woman, whom he kept on his wall in a place so he could see it everytime he looked up from his desk, was my mother.  
  
I stare at her face, mesmerized. I'm not sure how long I stand there, just staring, but a quiet voice breaks me out of my trance. "Sir?"  
  
Tseng sounds mildly concerned, but I know his concern is formulated. His job is to look out for my welfare. I blink, my hand trailing down the painting. The little boy jerks with surprise, but I feel nothing, just a cold anger as I see what my mother is holding in the picture. A smiling toddler in her lap. Her hands lay in his lap and his hands over hers. The toddler is me.   
  
Why did he keep this painting on his wall? Why, when he hated me so much? "This stays... get rid of the rest." I murmur, surprised that my voice is working.   
  
"Yes, sir." I can feel his hesitation so am not surprised when he speaks again, "Sir, your meeting?"  
  
I nod and step away from the painting, trying to physically remove myself. I can't look away. I miss my mother so much. She was the only kindness in the cold world I grew up in. The only shining light. The only love I knew came from her. When she died I wanted to die too, but because of her I survived. It's her strength that keeps me going, even now.  
  
"Let's go." I force myself to look away from the painting. I have a new life now. A life without her and without love. I can't afford to think about in her in this new life, because I know she'd hate what I'm becoming. She always loved the little boy in me. That innocent part of me that keeps sobbing in my ear.   
  
The part of myself I'm beginning to hate.  
  
  
  
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End file.
